


A Dozen Different Nothings

by MightyGlowCloud



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Aziraphale is a farmer, Crowley is a minor deity, He gets better, M/M, No angels or demons, Temporary Character Death, mentions of blood and injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-11 20:10:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20552015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MightyGlowCloud/pseuds/MightyGlowCloud
Summary: Temples were built for gods. With such a large and diverse pantheon, it was no wonder that the large temple in the midst of the city saw so many people coming to praise and worship whatever god best suited their needs. To Aziraphale, calling upon a god only as it benefitted oneself seemed dishonorable, and surely more likely to incur wrath and retribution. And so he built a temple in his field for a god to choose as their own; a humble thing of stones stacked up in a rough facsimile of a room, and two days later a god moved in, initially known only by the feeling of being watched.





	A Dozen Different Nothings

**Author's Note:**

> I was trawling pinterest and came across this post which is a writing prompt from Tumblr. I pulled most of the words from there and just bastardized it into Good Omens because wOW.  
https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/327848047874572977/
> 
> Please enjoy my 500 words of addition to that original work—seriously, 80% of this fic was not written by me and I don't want to take undue credit for someone else's work.

Temples were built for gods. With such a large and diverse pantheon, it was no wonder that the large temple in the midst of the city saw so many people coming to praise and worship whatever god best suited their needs. To Aziraphale, calling upon a god only as it benefitted oneself seemed dishonorable, and surely more likely to incur wrath and retribution. And so he built a temple in his field for a god to choose as their own; a humble thing of stones stacked up in a rough facsimile of a room, and two days later a god moved in, initially known only by the feeling of being watched.

"I hope you're a fan of the harvest," Aziraphale said, and set up an altar to burn two stalks of wheat. He looked down at the ash that settled on the stone, the rocks all laid askew and coughed, removing his straw hat. "I know it's not much, but I'll do what I can. It'd be nice to think there's a god looking after me."

The next day he left the best of his olives from his prized tree, and the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer and silent, peaceful thoughts. On the third day, the god spoke up, appearing in the entrance behind the farmer. The blazing red of his hair caught the sunlight to all appearances like flames as the curls twisted and twirled in the light breeze.

"You should go to a temple in the city," the god said, his voice breezy like the rustling of the wheat, and like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. "A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I'm no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?" He walked away and plucked a leaf from a tree to twist between his long, elegant fingers before sighing. "I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It's cozy enough, and the worship's been nice, but you can't honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything."

"This is more than I was expecting when I built it," Aziraphale said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground and picked at the blades of grass that bent beneath the stones. "Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?"

"I'm of the fallen leaves," the god said. "The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I'm a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it's gone." The gods' serpentine eyes closed wearily, and he placed his hand upon the trunk of the tree. The leaves rustled and seemed to fade slightly into golden yellow and orange hues, signaling the change of seasons that was soon to come.

"And what shall I call you?"

The god heaved another sigh and moved past the prone farmer into the temple, "Nothing. There's no point in worship like that, not like War or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You're so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me."

Aziraphale plucked a stalk of wheat that had latched itself to his clothes and flattened it between his teeth. "I like this sort of worship fine," he said, "so if you don't mind, I think I'll continue."

"Do what you will," said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. "But don't say I never warned you otherwise."

"I still await your answer," Aziraphale said as he brushed off the dirt and picked up his scythe once more.

"Hmm?" The god brushed his hand through the ash that remained of the offering, smudging it across the stones and blending the colors into the hard creases of stone.

"What shall I call you?"

"Call me Crowley, if you must." The god, Crowley, shook his head slightly, a small smile hid from Aziraphale's view.

Aziraphale would say a prayer before the morning's work, and he and Crowley contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Azriaphale's fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Aziraphale and his nephews walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Aziraphale gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

"Useless work," the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. "There wasn't a thing I could do to spare you this."

"We'll be fine," Aziraphale said. "The Storm's blown over. We'll rebuild. Don't have much of an offering for today," he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, "but I think I'll shore up this thing's foundations tomorrow, how about that?"

Crowley rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs—hours of work that had grown over the years as Crowley and Aziraphale built a friendship over small talks about everything and nothing. Aziraphale's neighbors chuckled as they passed it, thinking it to be a waste of faith and offerings that would be better served elsewhere. Some of their children left fruit and flowers.

Then the Harvest failed, and the gods withdrew their bounty. In Aziraphale's field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Aziraphale came and sat by the temple, the flowers so treasured by Crowley wilted now, the remaining offerings of fruits nothing but shriveled nubs. Aziraphale's ribs showed through his chest, the baggy layers of rough cloth doing little to hide how badly he suffered through hunger and cold. With his hands still shaking, he murmured out a prayer before inspecting the roof for any holes in need of repair.

"There is nothing here for you," said Crowley, huddling in the dark. "There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done." He shivered and spat out his words as if they were venom. "What is this temple but another burden to you?"

"We-" Aziraphale said, and his voice wavered. "So it's a lean year," he said. "We've gone through this before, we'll get through this again. So we're hungry. We've still got each other, don't we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn't protect them from this. No," he said, and shook his head, as he laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. "No, I think I like our arrangement fine."

"There will come worse," said Crowley, from the hollows of the stone. "And there will be nothing I can do to save you."

The years passed. Some days he spent an hour there lost in contemplation with the god, resting a wrinkled hand, rough from years of hard work in the fields upon the temple of stone. 

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Aziraphale came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointed the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones of his family burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and Crowley rushed out to meet him.

"I could not save them," the god cried in a low wail, assisting his progress into the shelter of the temple. "I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry." The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash that fell outside. "I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!"

"Shush," Aziraphale said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone altar in prayer. "Tell me," he mumbled. "Tell me again. What sort of god are you?"

"I-" Crowley's voice choked off with a sob. He reached out, cradling Aziraphale's bloodied hands in one of his own as the other brushed hair out of Aziraphale's eyes. He closed his eyes to gather himself. "I'm of the fallen leaves," he said, and conjured up the image of leaves that had since turned to ash and dust, blanketing Aziraphale in a useless effort of comfort. "And of the worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth." Aziraphale's lips parted in a smile, causing Crowley to take a harsh breath. "I am the god of a dozen different nothings. I am the petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air-" his voice broke, and Crowley wept. "Before it's **gone**."

"Beautiful," Aziraphale said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the cracks to mingle with the earth. "All of them. They were all so beautiful."

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Aziraphale the sower lay down in his humble temple, sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.

* * *

Anathema found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them after many years of abandonment.

"Oh, poor god," she said, "With no one to bury your last priest..." Then she paused, because she was from far away. "Or is this how the dead are honored here?" The god roused from contemplation, his voice like a creak of an old tree in harsh winds and the crackle of dying embers in a cooling fire.

"His name was Aziraphale," he said, "He was a sower."

Anathema startled a little. She had never before heard the voice of a god. "How can I honor him?" She asked.

"Bury him beneath my altar," the god asked in a soft gasp, surprised by the woman's offer.

"Alright," Anathema said, and went to fetch her shovel.

"Wait," the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. "Wait," the god said again, "I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful."

Anathema sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

"When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it. When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came-" his voice faltered. "When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms." Anathema looked down again at the bones.

"I think you are the god of something very useful," she said.

"What?" The god asked.

Anathema carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. "You are the god of Aziraphale."

* * *

Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens replanted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to be empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they had picked from the surrounding meadow.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road to pedestrians, workhouses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. _The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn,_ he thought.

Crowley had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god's work on his dying breath.

"Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World," called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god's eyes wept down onto curled lips. "Aziraphale," Crowley whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism. "You're here. How-?"

"I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust." Aziraphale avowed, soothing the other with every word.

"That's wonderful, Aziraphale," he responded, brushing away the few traitorous tears that fell without permission, "I'm so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You'll be adored by all."

"No," Aziraphale smiled.

"Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure."

"No, I will not go there either," Aziraphale shook his head and chuckled.

"Farther still? What ambitious goals you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though," he continued.

"Actually," interrupted Aziraphale, taking Crowley's hands in his own, "I'd like to stay here, if you'll have me."

Crowley was struck speechless. "... Why would you want to live here?"

"I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Aziraphale."


End file.
